Risen indeed!

Get out your number twos, kids, it’s time for a pop quiz!

What is your ideal Easter feast?
a) Classic Eggs Benedict (much like I had last year)
b) Baked French Toast
c) Honey-glazed Ham
d) Traditional Pork Roast

If I were taking this quiz, I’d leave the question blank, take my automatic F, and never look back.

Don’t get me wrong – I’ll be the first to commend my sister and brother-in-law for their delicious fontina/speck/onion strata served with bacon, fruit salad, and hot crossed buns that I had for Easter brunch earlier today. But even so, there’s been something else that’s had me suffering with hunger pangs for quite some time. For 40 days to be exact.

For Lent I gave up both candy and ice cream, and while I’ve done this in years past with only mild discomfort, this year has been particularly cruel (reading this a few weeks ago in MIX magazine did NOT help). When one of my friends asked me earlier this week how I would celebrate the end of my "probation," my mind started running wild. Sure, I had some Skittles and Jolly Rancher jellybeans earlier today to mark the occasion, but those were merely to tide me over until the main attraction.

I wanted to indulge in something so lip-smacking, so delectable, so downright good that one could not even fathom how it could ever be bad. So with that, I present you Allison’s ideal Easter feast:


Umpqua’s tin roof sundae (that’s vanilla ice cream with chocolate-covered peanuts and a fudgy chocolate ribbon) then drizzled very liberally with melted chocolate and peanut butter, only then to be adorned with crushed malt ball “eggs”

That’s right – it’s a sundae on a sundae on a Sunday. Some might say that my Easter ice cream treat is a little over the top, maybe even a little obnoxious. But you know what? I don’t even care because it’s so darn good. In fact, I’m still reveling in its glory and will continue to do so…well, at least until that stomachache sets in momentarily.

The Age of Asparagus

This could so very easily turn into a "my dog ate my homework" situation. Or even a "my baby brother peed on my homework" scenario. (True story. Ask my sister.) Instead, I'm going to own up to the fact that this should have been turned in a week ago. Here's my book report, Teach. Better late than never. Also, can I get an extension on my next one?

Book: The Age of Innocence
Author: Edith Wharton
Year: 1920

clatter’s nutshell summary and review: Another Pulitzer Prize winner, this novel I suspected would be one that, however wonderful, would still be very…dated. Of course in some regards it was, but I found myself constantly surprised by how much of what Wharton tells is timeless: the struggle of finding that balance between what is expected of you and what you really want (the tried and true theme of head vs. heart). She also kept me guessing till the end – one of which I was a big fan. I often got fed up with the pretension of the elite, but that was precisely Wharton's point - and she pulled it off flawlessly (probably didn’t hurt that she herself grew up in it). Strangely I found myself somehow relating to Newland Archer. You wouldn’t think I’d find much common ground with an affluent gentleman of New York society in the late 19th century, other than the fact that we both practice law (with over 100 years of Supreme Court decisions separating us). No, I haven't been engaged to one person and secretly pining for another, but still, we shared a few moments where I really understood the guy. But that might just be because he was created by a woman.

clatter’s favorite passage: It’s a little longer than you might care to read, but it’s worth it. I dare you.

"The young man was sincerely but placidly in love. He delighted in the radiant good looks of his betrothed, in her health, her horsemanship, her grace and quickness at games, and the shy interest in books and ideas that she was beginning to develop under his guidance. (She had advanced far enough to join him in ridiculing the Idylls of the King, but not to feel the beauty of Ulysses and the Lotus Eaters.) She was straightforward, loyal, and brave; she had a sense of humour (chiefly proved by her laughing at his jokes); and he suspected, in the depths of her innocently gazing soul, a glow of feeling that it would be a joy to waken. But when he had gone the brief round of her he returned discouraged by the thought that all this frankness and innocence were only an artificial product. Untrained human nature was not frank and innocent; it was full of the twists and defences of an instinctive guile. And he felt oppressed by this creation of factitious purity, so cunningly manufactured by a conspiracy of mothers and aunts and grandmothers and long-dead ancestresses, because it was supposed to be what he wanted, what he had a right to, in order that he might exercise his lordly pleasure in smashing it like an image made of snow."

Isn't that great? I want to learn how to write like that (and did you notice how even Wharton embraces the use of the parentheses like me?). She could have dumbed it down to "His fiancée looks good on paper, and she should be right for him…except that she’s not.” But Wharton chose the verbose, slightly fancy, slightly sardonic avenue instead, and for that I tip my hat (see below for an example) to her. Had I lived when Edith did, she and I would have been friends. At second glance, I’m not so sure. Her dogs look a little mean.

I love this photo. If I ever need fashion inspiration, I know where to go – far, far from this place.


clatter’s favorite food moment: New York high society in the 1880s? You better believe there were some food moments. I especially liked this one: “He breakfasted with appetite and method, beginning with a slice of melon, and studying a morning paper while he waited for his toast and scrambled eggs.” Breakfast as a verb? Fantastic – and not used often enough. May this also serve as further evidence of why I’d never cut it as a true elitist. I may eat with appetite (very much so, in fact), but there’s nothing methodical about how I eat. And there’s no way I’d eat just a single slice of melon.

Recipe: Pointe d’Asperge

Date: 
 May 18, 1879
NY Times: “Receipts for the Table.” Recipe by “Chef of the B___ Club”

clatter's thoughts: I’m dying to know what the B____ Club is. My money's on the Babysitters Club. Oh! Or the Breakfast Club. I chose 1879 instead of the year Wharton wrote the book because I thought it might be fun to eat as the characters of the novel might. I knew I must try this particular recipe because I’m training myself to prepare and like asparagus, and it’s one of the season’s It vegetables. But more importantly, Hesser wrote this before the recipe: “This dish brings to mind silver salvers and Edith Wharton.” Ahh! See, it was meant to be! Pointe d’Asperge is basically blanched asparagus tips (I used the whole thing) with an “evanescent” sauce made of butter, onion, water, egg yolk, salt, and sugar. It was kinda good (mostly not), but I still tried to pull off my best Newland Archer impression and eat it with method.

So, can anything even come close to the illustrious writings of Edith Wharton? How about the movie version? It might be time to add a little Daniel Day Lewis to my Netflix queue, especially after coming across this on Food52 a couple of days ago. I swear, I finished the book weeks ago and have no affiliation to this post (for those of you who aren’t familiar, Food52 is an Amanda Hesser-run blog). These things seem to keep happening to me, but I assure you, all of them are of pure coincidence. I'm not a total fake, I promise. I may fill you with empty (or delayed, rather) promises about writing, but I do not steal ideas. Just thought I'd let you know.

Betting the farm

What a day the first of April turned out to be. First I led a tutorial on how to pick the perfect fruit at the pineapple bin at Costco, then I took a field trip with my sister’s family to a local farm, and finally I conquered a challenge in the kitchen. Way to be productive, clatter!

As for the farm visit, one might inquire, “Why would you do that?” Since you asked, I did it partly to enjoy the unprecedented warm temperatures of 2011, partly to learn what "cage-free" really means for some of Oregon’s prized hens, and partly to stake out locations for the next episode of Portlandia. The last one is my belated (and lame) April Fools joke, and I haven’t even watched any episodes of Portlandia, but from what I hear about the show, this place could have easily made a scene appearance.

While the “farm to fork” concept sounds enticing and glamorous (especially if we’re talking an agriturismo somewhere in the Tuscan countryside), my romantic notions took a turn and were soon replaced by piles of goose poop and swarms of gnats. The tour guide, Prairie (yes, Prairie), gave us a nice introduction to the crops grown on the farm (we nibbled on the remnants of purple broccoli) and to the portable hen house. At first things were fine and dandy (the hens seemed "happy" enough), but soon I found myself less than impressed with the lack of bee hives and the group of volunteers elbow-deep in mud as they dug out earthworms. Where’s the romance in that? I know I can’t wholly blame the farm for my disappointment and especially not for my poor choice in footwear. I can place blame, however, on the insect that went up my nose and the young mother in the group who couldn't get a hold of her loud, obnoxious boy running all over the place. Maybe farm life is not for me.

But I don’t think I was the only one who expected more from this farm visit. My two nieces found the most pleasure and continued interest not in the geese or the vegetable gardens or the tiny garter snake, but in the sticks they found to use for dueling. Watching them provided more entertainment than any hen ever will.

Meet Opponent #1:


and Opponent #2:

Fierce and focused poise shown by both. Appointment of the highest honor is still being reviewed by the officials.

Completely uninspired by the farm tour, I along with my sister, brother-in-law, and two nieces, rejoined civilization in NE Portland after the field trip to make dinner at my apartment. One might expect that a meal following a farm visit would consist of fresh local products…but not this time, my friends. Instead, I took the opposite approach and thawed some frozen tilapia to made fish tacos. There was much more at stake with this dinner than simply honoring ‘no meat’ Fridays during Lent. The objective was simply this: “I will prove to my brother-in-law that fish tacos are delicious.” Recently we had a heated debate about the virtues of the fish taco, and I could only speak of it in the highest regard, as it’s one of my favorite things to eat. Because words can only go so far, my sister suggested that we prepare fish tacos in order to settle this debate once and for all. I accepted the said challenge, and as such, I got to work in the kitchen, pan-frying the fish lightly coated with panko crumbs and seasonings, while preparing my very own signature slaw with green cabbage, cilantro, red onion, radish, lime juice, sour cream, and various Mexican spices.

As much as I tried to get in my element (I was, after all, in the comfort of my own kitchen), I’ll admit that it was still a little touch-and-go there for a while. Without kid-proofing the apartment beforehand, I had a tough time blocking out every clash and clang coming from the other room. Rest assured I was still able to execute the dish once I learned that the little girls had forgiven me for not having any toys to play with by resorting to jumping on the bed and getting into my make-up bag. That’s probably what I would have done had I been in their shoes. Oh yes, and there was also wearing Auntie Alli’s shoes and clumping around the apartment. I’m still waiting to receive hate mail from my neighbor downstairs.

So, was my brother-in-law able to let go of his less than favorable stance on the fish taco? I’m not about to put words in his mouth or say that he loved it (after all, he could have just been acting as a gracious guest should), but something tells me that his praises were genuine and that at the very least, he’s going to think twice before talking smack about fish tacos ever again. clatter might not be changing lives (one taco at a time), but I still feel as if my work here is done.

And speaking of work, perhaps you’ve noticed that I’ve fallen behind on my literary project. I’m trying to get my act together, so look forward to a couple of book reports this week.

Today is a good day.

I’m in a good mood. Like, a really good mood. Just when the week at work felt like it would never end and that my impatience would get the best of me, Saturday arrived and all of that is behind me now. A brighter future awaits, and I can barely contain the urge to do an Irish jig. Which leads me to….

I’m going to Ireland! And Spain! Today I booked my tickets to travel with three dear friends in September, and I’m so excited (and I just can’t hide it, I’m about to lose control and I think I like it). Since my travel partners and I are not currently in the same city to celebrate together, I have taken it upon myself to do it alone. Together or apart, nothing commemorates such a joyous event than a region-appropriate beverage, so I just uncorked (rather, untwisted a cap from) a bottle of 2008 Castaño Monastrell from Yecla, Spain. Of course I have no idea where said Yecla is, but I will. You better believe that in preparation of this upcoming adventure, I am fully committed to doing my homework and learning how I can fully appreciate cava, sangria, tapas, and all other things Spanish. Tonight I am merely taking a baby step in the right direction.

With a sprightly step and plastered grin on my face once I received the confirmation email that this trip was officially on, I headed out in the intermittently sunny skies of Portland earlier today to explore a new produce market on SE Hawthorne. Once a farm stand called Uncle Paul’s Produce (rumored to have sold ten cent avocados!), I read months ago that it had been closed, much to my dismay since I had not yet visited the place. But then, while driving past the red barn-like establishment recently, I noticed that it was yet again open, but this time owned by Kruger’s Farm of Sauvie Island. Selling produce grown on its own farm, other local farms, as well as out-of-area farms, Kruger’s Market seemed like an ideal place for me to throw down some cash and stock up my fridge with the spring’s best.

And stock up I did. As soon as I walked in the enlarged, quasi-farmers market tent, I knew I would not only be filling up my basket, but that I would soon become a regular of the place. The prices were more than reasonable for local (and oftentimes organic) produce. But even more than that, Kruger’s made sure to have a whole lot of my very favorite type of apple – the pink lady. I wouldn’t dare call the pink lady “cheap” (that would be more than a little disrespectful!), but 95 cents a pound is a stellar price for the variety.

I took my time carefully picking out my produce (what’s new?) and made out like a bandit. With a cloth bag chock-full of beets, watercress, asparagus, apples, a papaya, bananas, bosc pears, two heads of broccoli, and radishes, I walked out of the joint spending a mere $13. A homeless couple may have made fun of me for putting down my bag in order to take a picture of it on my phone, but I appreciated the sign posted outside the entrance.

Who doesn’t love a farmer with a sense of humor?

Food Lovers Unite

Today at work I met with a client who had some questions about his pending case. Many of the people we help, such as this particular man, are in such sad mental and physical states, sometimes such dire, even literal life and death situations, that most of the time I find it difficult to relate to them at even the most basic level. But today something amazing happened.

The client brought in a stack of documents, mostly medical records, with him to our meeting that he wanted to go over and discuss with me. As he worked his way through the pile, there was a colorful page that stuck out. It looked like a page from a magazine.

“Oh, this isn't supposed to be in here,” he explained, picking up the page. “See, I cut out this recipe for caramel nut bars and it got mixed in with all the rest.” Suddenly his rather sad demeanor began to lighten, and I noticed he had a glimmer of happiness in his eyes, a slight smile on his lips. I felt one on mine too.

Against my best judgment as the diligent attorney I strive to be, I suddenly perked up and leaned in to take a closer look at the picture. Instead of narrowing in on the more relevant records he brought in to discuss, I found myself more attentive to the contents of this particular page. Being the freak that I am, I detected the recipe’s publication from its font in one second flat.

"This is from Sunset magazine, isn't it?" I inquired. I couldn't quite see her from my peripheral view, but I'm pretty sure the legal assistant sitting next to me rolled her eyes at my question.

"Well, I'm not sure," he said. "You know what, I think it is. I got it from a magazine at the library." I restrained myself from lecturing him about ripping pages from library materials, but more than anything, I found myself utterly surprised by this entire interaction. I couldn’t imagine a less likely person to have any interest in baking, let alone carry around a recipe for caramel nut bars from Sunset.

"Those look really good," I replied, the glossy picture scratching me right where I itched. It was about 3:00 pm, and I could really use one of those bars about now, I thought.

Focus, Allison, focus. "So, uh, anyway, let’s talk about your appeal...."

As I carried on with business as usual, I noticed that something felt different. Maybe I couldn’t solve all of this man’s problems (heck, maybe I couldn’t solve any of them), but for a single, sweet moment against all odds, this man and I shared something in common. Something as simple as a ripped out recipe from a library magazine made me realize - hey, we might come from completely different worlds, but maybe we're not so different, you and I. This encounter gave me yet another reason to love food: sometimes it has the power to connect us in strange and wonderful ways.

What comes first: the chicken or the cook?

It's Friday night. I'm young. I'm single. The city is practically begging me to put on a LBD, 4" heels, and experience the vibrant nightlife. Instead, I'm at home. Wearing an apron. And Ugg slippers. With a chicken roasting in the oven. What happened?

A wise woman once told me that the true test in determining whether someone is a good cook is by the quality of her roasted chicken. This wise woman may have been Ina Garten (or was it Martha Stewart?), and she may have not been talking to me directly, but I've still taken her words to heart. I've asked myself many times before, and I will ask it once again: am I, in fact, a good cook?

Some may agree that the roasted chicken test is a fair evaluation of a cook's aptitude in the kitchen (for the record, I don't think it is), but it raises a number of questions, of which one that is particularly bugging me: how many cooks (even the "good" ones) still roast their own when they can pick up a rotisserie chicken at Costco for a mere $4.99? After all, it's roasted fresh daily, it's a good price, it tastes good, it goes a long way....why waste the time, effort, and money on roasting your own? Duh, because Ina says so! And because like so many other things, it's just so much more satisfying to do it yourself. Remember when Merrill Streep roasts a chicken and bakes the perfect chocolate cake because it's Alec Baldwin's favorite meal in It's Complicated? That doesn't really have anything to do with anything, but I love that movie and thought I'd give it a shout out. (I might also mention that I strive to have a house and bakery like hers in Santa Barbara one day.)

Meanwhile, back to reality in my little Portland kitchen, tonight I came face-to-face with a raw (free range, with no added hormones, of course) whole chicken for the first time ever, and I was a little on edge. There might be no judging panel or culinary authority watching over my shoulder, proctoring my progress and performance as I removed the giblets (gross), stuffed it with herbs and a lemon, massaged it with butter, and took all those other necessary steps according to Martha's Cooking School book, but I was still a little nervous. Having that glass of wine by my side as I write this certainly quells my anxieties some and I just keep reminding myself, "Allison, this is only a test", but still: what if my roasted chicken sucks? What would Ina say about me and my ability to cook? If I'm only as good as my roasted chicken...well, I could be royally screwed and my ego could be permanently damaged. On the other hand, if my test results show perfectly crisp skin and succulent meat, I might feel on top of the world. However, without an adjudicator in the testing center tonight, I'll have to battle with my own bias and judge for myself in the most objective way I know how. According to my oven timer, I have about 45 minutes until the moment of truth arrives... I'll let you know how it turns out.

For now, my recommendation to you is this: one of these days if you're feeling the need to sacrifice your social life to keep yourself in check as a cook, just roast a chicken! Or you could simply denounce the test, buy a Costco chicken, go have a night on the town, and save the oven to bake your ski boot liners like my brother.

Spring Cleaning

I’ve become a disgrace.

My laundry basket is overflowing with dirty clothes and towels. The bottom of my oven is caked with something that smokes and sets off my fire alarm. My walk-in closet has lost its “walk-in" feature. My stack of magazines presents an ungodly sight. My Christmas tree is still sitting on my balcony, for Pete’s sake. What the heck is going on? At times like these, I need someone to get in my face and scream a la Jillian on The Biggest Loser to some contestant about to collapse on the treadmill, “Allison, get it together!” (Side note: I once almost fell off a treadmill, and that was without someone yelling at me to keep going. It was very traumatic.)

Sure, I’ve been busy. There have been weddings to attend (wedding gown steaming and chauffeuring obnoxious drunk lawyers have both been added to my skill set; legitimate dance moves still have not), an out-of-town guest, a pseudo-Oscar party, spinning classes, work as usual, blah blah blah. Even so, I feel like my priorities and thoughts are all out of whack because 1) my apartment looks like a hurricane hit, and 2) I’ve had very little interest in cooking. As you may expect, number two is especially concerning for me. I may have whipped up some flaky scones for my guest and lovely hors d’oeuvres for the Oscars, but since then, my cooking (or lack thereof) has been a sad state of affairs. If you saw the lame lunches I brought to work this week, you would look at me, with sad puppy dog eyes and say, “Allison, I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.” You and me both, my friend. You and me both.

Well fear not folks, because now that I’ve recognized that I’m off my game, I’m determined to get it back. Spring might officially still be a couple of weeks away, but I am taking it upon myself to declare it early because frankly, I can’t take the rain anymore! (Of course if you live in the Northwest, you know that spring gives us just as much rain as winter…)

Allow me to share my declarations for a brighter immediate future: I will line up my shoes perfectly in my closet. I will scrub the crud off the bottom of the oven. I will rifle through some of those food magazines and find some recipes to try this week. I will make a grocery list. I will do as many loads of laundry as it takes to stop the overflow. I will throw my Christmas tree off the balcony and hope it lands in the dumpster below instead of on an innocent bystander. And then, I will relax with a cup of tea (let’s be honest, it will be a glass of red wine) and a book because believe it or not, I’m also a little behind on my next clatter selection.

We’ve got the list. Now for the follow-through….. Ready, set, go!